Not Just a Soldier’s War Read online

  In seconds, it seemed, although it must have been longer, other people too were carrying the injured, conscious and unconscious, blistered, burned black, red raw, blood gushing, oozing, trickling, eyes open, eyes closed, eyes missing. It was a vivid silent horror movie, yet more horrific than anything a film-maker could fake. Silent. The child’s mouth made a shape for screaming, but no sound came. One entire side of its body was burned from neck to ankle. Eve wanted to give comfort, but wherever she touched, skin and flesh came away.

  Suddenly, Ozz, bare to the waist, came into her field of vision. He looked at the child on her lap, covered his eyes for a second and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Ozz, find some water.’ She said the words but no sound came. Even so he was there in seconds with a pail of water which she ladled over the child with her free hand. Ozz’s face loomed again mouthing silent words. She seemed unable to make sense of anything. He pointed to her ears. Deaf!

  Then Dolores, her half-made plait disintegrating, her white shirt filthy, brought a small bottle and a hypodermic needle. She said something. Ozz told her that Eve couldn’t hear, so Dolores showed her the bottle. Morphine in any language is recognizable. It took effect at once, and as the child’s mouth sagged Dolores picked the child up and handed it to Ozz who gestured, with a nod of his head, that Eve should follow. As she stood up, all hell was let loose. A dreadful explosion of sound, of cries, and screams, of voices shouting orders, of thin terrifying wails, loud crackling flames and fading timbers.

  She would probably never know how long she had sat cradling the child, but while she had been doing so Dolores’ mother and the other women of the place had dragged mattresses from the bedrooms and laid them in the backs of the flat-bed trucks. They now brought out pillows, towels and lengths of torn sheeting. One of the older women brought a black shawl and tied it around Eve’s shoulders. Was it so that the man without a foot should not look on her brassiere? Or was it an old woman not knowing what else to do but what she had always done to protect an unclothed young woman. I’m mad. We’re all insane, nothing is worth this. Nothing.

  It was clear that neither she nor Ozz was in a fit state to drive such dreadfully injured casualties in the make-shift ambulances, but they could drive and the trucks were undamaged. Dolores did not travel in the cab, but, with the assistance of two elderly women, knelt doing what she could to alleviate the suffering. Where had they all come from? Standing by Ozz’s truck, Eve had noticed only the soldiers, the boy and the children. There must have been people working in the fields. There had been a tractor. And there had been a woman with a basket, what had happened to her? From time to time, they had to stop to allow Dolores to change trucks. Ozz and Eve didn’t speak. If she looked as dreadful as he did, then she must look tormented and half-dead. Before Dolores climbed into the back of Eve’s truck, Eve pinned up the nurse’s hair and gave her the wetted towel to wipe her face and arms.

  ‘Not drive slow, now. Very quick. Villa Luna. Leetle few kilometres.’ She pointed ahead.

  Ozz leaned out, signalled that he was going on and called back, ‘Fifteen minutes maximum, Andy.’

  ‘I’m afraid to drive too quickly.’

  ‘Quick, doloroso, doloroso, ah pain!’ Dolores held up the morphine bottle which was empty. ‘Villa Luna ees, ah, Gran Bretana. Yes?’

  ‘Yes. English hospital?’

  Dolores climbed into the truck. ‘We go.’

  ‘OK. Dolores? The child?’ She indicated the burns with a sweep of her hands.

  Dolores’ reply was incomprehensible. There was no time to make concessions to foreigners who needed a dictionary. Eve recognized something: sangre, blood. She shut out everything except her driving. The road was a good one, so they drove fast. Blood transfusion.

  Someone had telephoned ahead, so that when they reached the Villa Luna nurses and orderlies were ready with stretchers. There were sixteen casualties. The last four to be lifted from the trucks went in with sheets covering their faces. None of them was a child.

  As soon as the casualties had been taken inside, she and Ozz set about sponging the stained mattresses with salt water and putting them in the sun to dry. Silently they foraged for something to drink. Carrying their enamel mugs of tea into which spoonfuls of condensed milk had been stirred, they discovered, to their surprise, a most beautiful garden beyond the surfaced parking area. It was almost wild, untended except for a patch of grass that might once have been a small lawn which had been scythed like a hayfield, and on its hard terraces weeds fought garden plants for space. It was both welcoming and comforting. So, what with that and the scent of the hay and hot earth, Eve was momentarily stabbed by a memory from way back. She tried to ignore her thoughts and lifted the welcome mug of tea to her mouth, but when the scent of that too reached her, she found it difficult to swallow.

  Every morning used to start with her elder brother brewing a large pot of tea into which they would stir condensed milk. Ray would give her the spoon to lick as she watched him fasten his shirt stud. Then Ken would rush down at the last minute, slopping tea over the oil-cloth table-cover in his haste, and dash out of the house holding a slice of thick bread between his teeth while he combed his hair. She would write home today. Maybe by now Ray would have heard from Ken and have some idea of where he was. Maybe by now Ken would have received her letter saying that she too was in Spain.

  ‘OK, Andy?’ Ozz’s gentle voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m OK. How about you?’

  ‘OK. I’ve done a fair old bit of driving ambulances. Never gets no better, and that’s for sure.’

  She looked at her wrist-watch, then put it to her ear. ‘Is that all it is?’

  ‘Yeah. Seems like it’s been ages.’

  ‘I suppose we should report in to Alex.’

  ‘I gave the old guy at the hotel her number. I don’t know if he understood, I asked him to ring the number and just say that Ozz had gone to the hospital at Huete. I think that’s where we are. Let’s scrounge something to eat. If we don’t get a call by then, we’ll ring her. Sure you’re OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ll check with the admin, see if Alex has been on, then get a bit of something inside us then.’

  More beans and chilli, but this time with generous sweet tomatoes, basil and garlic.

  Although Villa Luna was an English base hospital, it seemed to be staffed with a representative of every one of the United Nations. While they were waiting for their food, a woman’s voice with a Yorkshire accent came from behind them. ‘It looks like you two have been in a bit of a ruck.’ A middle-aged woman with straight, iron-grey hair clipped back unceremoniously looked directly at them from behind round, heavy lenses. She held out a hand. ‘Jean Pook.’

  Eve looked down at herself, then ran her fingers through her hair. ‘A bomb on some petrol pumps.’

  ‘Were that it? I took the call. They’re saying it was Eyetie planes, shouldn’t wonder. If that’s how Mussolini is training this crack air-force of his, shows what a dirty lot they are. It’s one thing dropping bombs where the fighting is, it’s a dirty dog that uses a village for target practice.’

  ‘What is this place?’ Ozz asked.

  As soon as her behind hit the bench, Jean Pook started to eat with great gusto. ‘I think it were once a monastery, but before it was given over to us lot it was called a presbytery. I think that’s a school for lads who want to be priests. A lot of dormitories, just right for a hospital.’

  ‘I thought it didn’t look much like a villa.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s the English for you. Story goes, the advance party took down the sign, and because there were larks singing some romantic joker decided to call it House of Larks. I think that was it. Anyway, like the rest of us Brits who can’t talk to foreigners without our pocket dictionaries, this lad couldn’t tell his lunas from his alondras. Bie! This farty food gets fiercer by the day. I love it. Know now why they say, feeling full of beans. Well that’s me! Look,
me lass, you’ve never seen nowt like some of the ablutions here, especially in the part used for staff and the like, but if you want to have a pee and a wash-up, best place is end of corridor on first floor. Mostly urinals there, but there’s some of our sort. Tek no notice who comes in, man or beast, just carry on wi’ what you’re doing. It’s called egalitarianism – or equality if you’re in the fourpenny seats. Well, I’d better get back to work.’

  When she had gone, Eve and Ozz looked at one another and smiled a little. Ozz said, ‘I feel better. Do you reckon it was the sweet tea or her?’

  ‘Treatment for shock? Oh, her. Definitely her. I’m going to try and get through to Alex.’

  In the best peeing and washing place on the first floor, Eve filled a hand-basin with cold water and washed her face and head in it, unnoticed by man or beast. She ran a comb through her wet hair.

  ‘That’s better.’ Jean Pook, the woman who liked beans, was operating the small telephone switchboard. ‘Is your name Lavender?’

  ‘No, that’s the other driver.’

  ‘OK, one of you is to call this Albacete number. Want me to get it for you?’

  It was the Auto-Parc and Alexander’s extension number. Eve nodded. Jean spoke fluent Spanish. She was no dozy Brit in need of a pocket dictionary. Eve was. She had been pretty useless in the emergency.

  ‘You’re through.’

  The line to Albacete was clear, as was Alex’s upper-class voice. ‘Anders? This is Alex.’

  ‘Yes, Alex.’

  ‘Are you and Ozz OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank God! Some old chappie phoned here, said what happened. Pretty bloody awful.’

  ‘It was, and if you don’t mind I don’t want to talk about it just now.’

  ‘OK. Good thing Ozz had the second truck, he’s a good chum when things get hot. Now listen, you leave the lorries at Villa Luna. They’re to hold on to them pending news from Madrid.’

  ‘God above, Alex! Why is it that every order is countermanded?’

  ‘It’s war, darling.’

  In the short silence that followed, Eve saw Alexander in her mind’s eye, one eye closed against the smoke, sucking on the flattened end of her cigarette. ‘I don’t need you to remind me, I’ve got it all over my shirt. Darling.’

  ‘If there isn’t a shower, get somebody to pour a bowl of water over you. Put on some clean knickers and socks. Wash what you were wearing this morning and lay it in the sun. The stains won’t go, but it will get rid of the stink. Do it. That’s an order. Are you still there? Good! And for God’s sake, Anders, don’t get so touchy about taking orders. Sure as hell, I’m not the one to give them, but that’s how it works for now. Perhaps you’d like to try deciding which of the ten demands for transport gets the one free truck that’s fit to be on the road. Now, put Ozz on.’

  Eve would probably have burst into tears had she tried to answer, so she just thrust the earpiece back at the switchboard operator.

  ‘Want me to call your man on the Tannoy?’

  Eve realized that Jean Pook had heard Alexander’s dressing down. She nodded. ‘Ozz Lavender.’

  She sat on the stairs facing the desk where Ozz was taking the call. Every now and then he would glance in her direction and he smiled a lot, but Eve would have bet that he was getting agitated by whatever Alex was saying. He dived into his shirt pocket and took out a new cigarette, feeling about his other pockets absently for a light. She was about to offer her own lighter, but Jean got there first. She winked at Eve, then raised her eyebrows and made a moue, obviously listening in to the Albacete call, all the while pulling out some plugs and inserting others.

  When he finished, Jean started to say something but Ozz put up a stiff and commanding hand. ‘Don’t! If y’don’t mind, I’ll handle it.’ She smiled and shrugged.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Eve.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘What do you mean, I don’t want to know?’

  ‘Alex give you orders? Instructions?’

  ‘She told me to take off my dirty clothes and get somebody to pour water over me.’

  ‘She’s right, Andy, it’s what you should do.’

  He handed her his cigarette upon which she drew thankfully and didn’t hand it back. ‘I want to find out about those people we brought in. We can’t just go.’

  ‘We can. Now, are you going to let me have another drag on the ciggie?’

  ‘Ciggie is such a damned silly word for a grown man to use.’

  ‘Well, sweetheart, it’s an uncontrovertible fact of life that Aussies smoke ciggies because of the mozzies. Y’see, cigarettes just don’t scan.’

  She didn’t want to see herself as only a gun-runner; she wanted to be involved in what they did. She scowled at him, unwilling to give up her mood. ‘That little kid. I have to find out whether it… if it… if they saved it.’

  ‘It’s not what we do, Andy. We ferry the bully-beef, we run the guns, sometimes we get to drive the ambulances. We don’t cook the stew or shoot off the rifles. We just off-load the goods, turn around and go back for more. It’s called truck-driving, Andy. It’s what we do.’ They were back outside again, and the heat from the stone terrace leaped up at them.

  ‘For God’s sake, Clive, those were injured people, not goods.’

  ‘Bloody sure they were! You think I don’t know it! What do you think one of them left behind in my truck? A finger. Not a very big one it’s true, but a finger. An injured person’s finger, most likely left behind by the woman with the basket. She threw herself around a bit before she got her shot from Dolores. I thought she might miss it, so I took it to a nurse. Sorry, she said, we’d put it back if we could, but the finger would only die and drop off again.’

  His bitter put-down was the worst she had ever experienced. She had grown up knowing how to ignore the intended hurt. But this was not the same. This was rejection by a friend, an attack on her for insensitivity, for not seeing that his way of dealing with what they did was no less valid than her own. She felt sick at the thought. She had not realized how much she had grown to like him in such a short time.

  But she stalked on towards the scythed grass, now bleached and dry, not knowing what to do.

  Ozz threw himself down on the grass and stretched out flat on his back. She stood before him like a penitent. ‘When my mother was buried, I ran away from the graveside. The police came looking for me. My brothers were distraught and other people worried. I had a reputation for going off like a fire-cracker. It seemed OK till then. After that I saw that there was a dark side, a self-indulgent side. I vowed then that I would never go off in all directions without thinking. You can hurt people that way. And I’ve done it again. I’m sorry.’

  He raised himself up on his elbows and looked at her. ‘You’re an OK kinda girl, Andy. My mam would have you round for Sunday tea like a shot.’

  ‘I mean it. I’m really sorry, Ozz.’

  ‘It’s OK, I was a bit hard on you. I got my black side too.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. ‘Andy? Whyn’t you do as Alex says, and go get water poured over you? Your clobber’s a touch high.’

  She sniffed her shirt. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just go fetch your bag, and if you go round the end of that building with the tin roof, there’s a set-up of water and buckets that’ll just do the trick.’

  Eve had the old Ozz back again.

  * * *

  The soap was so thin as to be almost transparent, but the water was soft and created a foamy lather.

  For the first time Eve noticed how white her torso was compared to the skin that had been exposed to the sun – as Duke Barney’s had been that time when they were both young and she had seen him dive naked into the pool of green water. The sacred pool had been hers and Bar Barney’s till then. A surge of desire ran through her, and she was shocked that she had so little control over herself wh
en only hours before she had been part of the most horrific scene imaginable. She closed her eyes and pulled gently on the rope, allowing a steady trickle of cool water to hit the crown of her head.

  Not long before she left home, she and her old head-teacher, who had become her trusted friend, had talked for the first time as equals. They had exchanged confidences about sexual desire and lust without reaching any clear conclusions. Sexual desire, they decided, was such that one could manipulate it a little if one wished, encourage it. But lust, the older woman had postulated, lust was unstable, unpredictable; it was the first Mrs Rochester as Jane Eyre had encountered her, a creature of nature, of necessity best kept locked away, for if left unguarded it would burst out and destroy the happy home.

  Letting go the bit of rope, she looked down at her white breasts. The cold trickle had done no good, she would have to put on a cotton bra under her shirt. Sex on the brain! There was no getting dry in the humid atmosphere of the shower-stalls. Trousers would stick to her legs, so she opted for a green cotton skirt and one of her checked shirts. The clothes that Ozz had complained of she had been squeezing under her feet as she showered. Now, as she was hanging them out over a make-shift washing line, along with a variety of men’s underpants, cotton petticoats, canvas trousers of unknown gender and an assortment of dark socks, she wondered what instructions Alex had given Ozz.

  She found him chatting to a couple of men in white coats and a woman in nurse’s uniform. The four of them were standing beside the two flat-bed trucks, one of which was now piled high with what looked like the bedding they had brought with them. The medics moved off.

  Without preamble Ozz said, ‘Now listen, Andy, you may not like this, and if you don’t then go and make your beef to Alex. It’s her idea.’